Neglected Structures & Overgrown Places #10 — Drains & Gullies

Drain 01

Drain 02

Broken Gully

Can I say it? In the good old days, roads were swept regularly and drains kept clean of leaves and debris.

Nowadays, we are lucky in the UK if the borough or district councils do these two jobs more than one a year. It’s usually more a case of breakdown maintenance i.e. fixing things when the drains are so bunged up with leaves that the road floods and becomes impassable to vehicles.

In the context of general world chaos, this might seem no more than a tiny inconvenience, but I’ve decided to moan about a minor issue as there’s still a slight chance of having my voice heard.

Regarding international issues, I’m but a grain of sand and a voice crying in the wilderness. Who actually cares what I think?

Wordless Wednesday — Desensitisation Therapy for Miss Muffet

Garden Orb Spider Web

I know “Wordless Wednesday” should mean just that, but I couldn’t resist posting two short videos to go with the image above.

Wordless-Wednesday-Button-150

Monday Morning #Haiku 34 — Autumn Steals Summer

Virginia Creeper &  Ivy

Wind whooshes drizzle;
autumnal red says goodbye
to summer. Frosts soon.

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Thank you to those who voted and provided feedback to my poll last week. Those in favour of images and punctuated haiku won the vote, but this doesn’t rule out the occasional unpunctuated haiku in the future. You can see the full results of the Poll here

October’s Guest Storyteller, Andrea Stephenson

Andrea StephensonAndrea Stephenson writes fiction, including short stories and The skin of a selkie, her first (as yet unpublished) novel. She finds inspiration in nature, the coastline and the turn of the seasons. During the day, Andrea is a libraries manager, but by night she is a writer, artist and witch. 

Her story below is inspired by the activities of the Order of the White Feather, an organisation active in World War One, with the purpose of shaming men into enlisting by encouraging women to present them with a white feather.

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WHITE FEATHER

Her friends giggled as they nudged her forward so that she could present him with the feather.  He accepted it as if it were a gift, blushing and looking at the ground.  Her friends couldn’t know about the balmy days that they’d shared as children.  They couldn’t know that as a young woman she’d cherished his gentle soul.  The girls moved on and she stayed for a moment, watching the feather outlined starkly against his overcoat.  Neither of them said a word.

She received just one letter, a crumpled missive from the Front.  His words were relentlessly cheerful and still seeking her approval.  Her reply was swift and steeped in the things she couldn’t say.  She wanted to seek forgiveness in person, to tell him that it was she who was shamed by her action, not him.  It was returned unopened with his effects.  She kept it in her bottom drawer with all the things she’d collected but would never use.

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Sarah says: Thank you so much, Andrea, for your most poignant contribution this month that says so much in so few words. I had no idea about this appalling practice of shaming men into enlisting until you told me about it, and sincerely hope nothing like it will happen again, although I suspect its equivalent might still occur in some parts of the world: probably with the shaming done by “tweet” rather than by white feather.

Everyone, do visit Andrea’s awesome blog Harvesting Hecate, which is about life, writing, creativity, and magic.

You might also like to check out previous guest storyteller posts via sarahpotterwrites.com/guest-storytellers-2/

Friday Fictioneers: Yum, Tasty

unidentifiable-on-a-stick

‘It’s just a stage he’s going through,’ she says to the other mothers. ‘Yesterday, he ate two earthworms, an earwig, and the dog’s dinner.’

‘Mum. Look. Tasty lolly.’ He plucks the mouldy seed pod by its stem from the path and stuffs it in his mouth.

Long silence. Delayed reaction. Family mutt slinks off under the park bench, trembling. Mum moves in slow motion towards her son, through a force field of invisible treacle.

Ploff. An explosion of spores.

One nappy draped over tree branch. No more toddler. Just a furry grey monster toddling off into the bushes, ploffing with delight.

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Picture Prompt courtesy of Kent Bonham
Friday Fictioneers — 100 word stories